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Armstrong Sperry 
Winner of the Newbery Medal 

Mafatu's name means "Stout Heart" but his people call him coward. Ever since the 
sea took his mother's life and spared his own, he has lived with deep fear. And even 
though his father is the great chief of Hikueru - an Island whose sea faring people 
worship courage - he is terrified, and so scorned. 

By the time he is 15 years old, Mafatu can bear it no longer. He must conquer his 
fear alone... even if it means certain death. 

This classic tale of a young boy’s hidden strength has been a favorite of readers of 

all ages since its 1940 publication. 


IT HAPPENED many years ago, before the traders and missionaries first came 
into the South Seas, while the Polynesians were still great in numbers and 
fierce of heart. But even today the people of Hikueru sing this story in their 
chants and tell it over the evening fires. It is the story of Mafatu, the Boy Who 
Was Afraid. 

They worshiped courage, those early Polynesians. The spirit which had urged 
them across the Pacific in their sailing canoes, before the dawn of recorded 
history, not knowing where they were going nor caring what their fate might 
be, still sang its song of danger in their blood. There was only courage. A man 
who was afraid— what place had he in their midst and the boy Mafatu - son of 
Tavana Nui, the Great Chief of Hikueru— always had been afraid. So the people 
drove him forth. Not by violence, but by indifference. 

Mafatu went out alone to face the thing he feared the most. And the people of 
Hikueru still sing his story in their chants and tell it over the evening fires. 

It was the sea that Mafatu feared. He had been surrounded by it ever since he 
was born The thunder of it filled his ears; the crash of it upon the reef, the 
mutter of it at sunset, the threat and fury of its storms— on every hand, wherever 
he turned— the sea. 

He could not remember when the fear of it first had taken hold of him. Perhaps 
it was during the great hurricane which swept Hikueru when he was a child of 
three. Even now, twelve years later, Mafatu could remember that terrible 
morning. His mother had taken him out to the barrier-reef to search for sea 
urchins in the reef pools. There were other canoes scattered at wide intervals 
along the reef. With late afternoon the other fishermen began to turn back. 

They shouted warnings to Mafatu's mother. It was the season of hurricane and 
the people of Hikueru were nervous and ill at ease, charged, it seemed, with an 
almost animal awareness of impending storm. 

But when at last Mafatu's mother turned back toward shore, a swift current had 
set in around the shoulder of the reef-passage: a meeting of tides that swept like 
a millrace out into the open sea. It seized the frail craft in its swift race. Despite 
all the woman's skill, the canoe was carried on the crest of the churning tide, 
through the reef-passage, into the outer ocean. 

Mafatu would never forget the sound of his mother's despairing cry. He didn't 
know then what it meant; but he felt that something was terribly wrong, and he 
set up a loud wailing. Night closed down upon them, swift as a frigate's wing, 
darkening the known world. The wind of the open ocean rushed in at them, 
screaming. Waves lifted and struck at one another, their crests hissing with 
spray. The poles of the outrigger were torn from their thwarts. The woman 
sprang forward to seize her child as the canoe capsized. The little boy gasped 
when the cold water struck him. He clung to his mother's neck. Moana, the Sea 
God, was reaching up for them, seeking to draw them down to his dark heart.... 

Off the tip of Hikueru, the uninhabited islet of Tekoto lay shrouded in darkness. 
It was scarcely more than a ledge of coral, almost awash. The swift current bore 
directly down upon the islet. 

Dawn found the woman still clinging to the purau pole and the little boy with 
his arms locked about his mother's neck. The grim light revealed sharks 
circling, circling.... Little Mafatu buried his head against his mother's cold 
neck. He was filled with terror. He even forgot the thirst that burned his throat. 
But the palms of Tekoto beckoned with their promise of life, and the woman 
fought on. 

When at last they were cast up on the pinnacle of coral, Mafatu's mother 
crawled ashore with scarcely enough strength left to pull her child beyond 
reach of the sea's hungry fingers. The little boy was too weak even to cry. At 
hand lay a cracked coconut; the woman managed to press the cool, sustaining 
meat to her child's lips before she died. 

Sometimes now, in the hush of night, when the moon was full and its light lay 
in silver hands across the pandanus mate, and all the village was sleeping, 
Mafatu awoke and sat upright. The sea muttered its eternal threat to the reef. 
The sea ...and a terrible trembling seized the boy's limbs, while a cold sweat 
broke out on his forehead. Mafatu seemed to see again the faces of the 
fishermen who had found the dead mother and her whimpering child. These 
pictures still colored his dreams. And so it was that he shuddered when the 
mighty seas, gathering far out, hurled themselves at the barrier reef of Hikueru 
and the whole island quivered under the assault. 

Perhaps that was the beginning of it. Mafatu, the boy who had been christened 
Stout Heart by his proud father, was afraid of the sea. What manner of 
fisherman would he grow up to be? How would he ever lead the men in battle 
against whispers of other islands? Mafatu's father heard the whispers, and the 
man grew silent and grim. 

The older people were not unkind to the boy, for they believed that it was all 
the fault of the tupaupau the ghost- spirit which possesses every child at birth. 
But the girls laughed at him, and the boys failed to include him in their games 
And the voice of the reef seemed pitched for his ears alone; it seemed to say: 
"You cheated me once, Mafatu, but someday, someday I will claim you!" 

Mafatu's stepmother knew small sympathy for him, and his stepbrothers treated 
him with open scorn. "Listen," they would mock "Moana, the Sea God, 
thunders on the reef. He is angry with us all because Mafatu is afraid!" 

The boy learned to turn these jibes aside, but his father's silence shamed him. 

He tried with all his might to overcome his terror of the sea. Sometimes, 
steeling himself against it, he went with Tavana Nui and his stepbrothers out 
beyond the reef to fish. Out there, where the glassy swells of the ocean lifted 
and dropped the small canoe, pictures crowded into the boy's mind, setting his 
scalp atingle: pictures of himself, a babe, clinging to his mother's back ... sharks 
cruising.... And so overcome would he be at the remembrance of that time that 
he would drop his spear overboard, or let the line go slack at the wrong moment 
and lose the fish. 

It was obvious to everyone that Mafatu was useless upon the sea. He would 
never earn his proper place in the tribe. Stout Heart— how bitter the name must 
taste upon his father's lips! 

So, finally, he was not allowed to fare forth with the fishermen. He brought ill 
luck. He had to stay at home making spears and nets, twisting coir— the husk of 

the coconut-into stout shark line for other boys to use. He became very skillful 
at these pursuits, but he hated them. His heart was like a stone in his breast, 

A nondescript yellow dog named Uri was Mafatu's inseparable companion— Uri 
with his thin coat, which showed his ribs and his eyes so puzzled and true. He 
followed the boy wherever he went. Their only other friend was Kivi, an 
albatross. The boy had once found the bird on his lonely wanderings. One of 
Kivi's feet was smaller than the other. Perhaps because it was different from its 
kind, the older birds were heckling and pestering the fledgling. Something 
about that small bird trying to fight off its more powerful fellows touched the 
boy's heart. He picked it up and carried it home— caught fish for it in the 
shallows of the lagoon. The bird followed Mafatu and Uri about, limping on its 
one good leg. At length, when the young albatross learned to fly, it began to 
find its own food. In the air it achieved perfection, floating serenely against the 
sky while Mafatu followed its effortless flight with envious eyes. If only he, 
too, could escape to some world far removed from Hikueru! 

Now, once more, it was the beginning of the season of storms. Men scanned the 
skies anxiously, watching for the dreaded signs which might spell the 
destruction of their world. Soon the great bonitos would be swimming beyond 
the reef— hundreds, thousands of them— for they came each year at this time 
with the unfailing regularity of the tides. They were held to be the special 
property of young boys, since it was by killing them that a youth learned to kill 
the swordfishes and tiger-sharks, progressing from one stage to a higher. Every 
boy in the village sharpened his spear, tested the shaft, and honed his shark 
knife. Every boy, that is, except Mafatu. 

Kana stopped one afternoon to watch Mafatu at work on his nets. Of all the 
youths of his own age, Kana alone had been friendly. Sometimes he even 
stayed behind when the others were fishing to help the boy with his work. 

'The bonitos have begun to come, Mafatu," Kana said quietly. 

"Yea" the other returned, then fell silent. His fingers faltered as they flew 
among the sennit fibers of the net he was making. 

"My father brought back word from the reef today," Kana went on. "Already 
there are many bonitos out there. Tomorrow we boys will go after them. That's 
our job. It will be fun, eh?" 

Mafatu's knuckles whitened. His ears pounded with the swift fury of the sea.... 

"That will be fun, won't it?" Kana insisted, watching Mafatu closely. But the 
boy made no answer. Kana started to speak; he stopped, turned impatiently, and 
walked away. Mafatu wanted to cry out after him: "Wait, Kana! I'll go! I'll try— 
" But the words would not come. Kana had gone. Tomorrow he and all the 
other boys would be taking their canoes out beyond the reef. They would return 
at sunset, loaded down with bonitos, their faces happy, their shouts filling the 
dusk. Their fathers would say: "See what a fine fisherman is my son! He will 
be a Chief one of these days." Only Tavana Nui would be silent. His son had 
not gone. 

That night a new moon rose above the edge of the sea, silvering the land with a 
bloom of magic. Wandering along the outer beach with Uri, Mafatu heard 
laughing voices and drew hastily into the black shadow of a pandanus. A group 
of boys were pulling their canoes above high watermark, and laying their plans 
for the morrow. Their voices were shrill with eagerness. 

"Tomorrow at daybreak..." one was saying. 

'There'll be Timi and Tapu and Viri ..." "Aue!" another voice broke in. "It's 
work for us all. How else will we become fishermen and warriors? How else 
will we feed our families and keep the tribe alive?" 

"True! Hikueru is too poor. There are only the fish from the sea. A man must 
be fearless to provide food. We will all go - every one of us!" 

Mafatu, standing tense in the shadows, heard a scornful laugh. His heart 
contracted. "Not all of us will go," he heard Kana scoff. "Not Mafatu!" 

"Ha! He is afraid." 

"He makes good spears," offered Viri generously. 

"He! That is woman's work. Mafatu is afraid of the sea. He will never be a 
warrior." Kana laughed again, and the scorn of his voice was like a spear thrust 
through Mafatu's heart. "Aia!" Kana was saying. "I have tried to be friendly 
with him. But he is good only for making spears. Mafatu is a coward." 

The boys disappeared down the moonlit beach. Their laughter floated back on 
the night air. Mafatu stood quite still. Kana had spoken; he had voiced, once for 
all, the feeling of the tribe. Mafatu Stout Heart-was a coward. He was the Boy 
Who Was Afraid. 

His hands were damp and cold. His nails dug into his palms. Suddenly a fierce 
resentment stormed through him. He knew in that instant what he must do: he 
must prove his courage to himself, and to the others, or he could no longer live 
in their midst. He must face Moana, the Sea God— face him and conquer him. 
He must. 

The boy stood there taut as a drawn arrow awaiting its release. Off to the south 
somewhere there were other islands ... He drew a deep breath. If he could win 
his way to a distant island, he could make a place for himself among strangers. 
And he would never return to Hikueru until he should have proven himself! He 
would come back with his head high-held in pride, and he would hear his father 
say: "Here is my son Stout Heart. A brave name for a brave boy." ... Standing 
there with clenched fists, Mafatu knew a smarting on his eyelids and shut his 
eyes tight, and sank his teeth into his lower lip. 

Far off in the himene' house the Old Ones were singing. Their voices filled the 
night with rich sound. They sang of long voyages in open canoes, of hunger 
and thirst and battle. They sang the deeds of heroes. The hair on the boy's damp 
forehead stirred; the long-drawn mutter of the reef sounded its note of warning 
in his ears. At his side, Uri touched his master's hand with a cold nose. Mafatu 
pulled the dog close. 

"We're going away, Uri," he whispered fiercely. "Off to the south there are 
other islands." ... 

The outrigger canoes lay drawn up on the beach like long slim fish. Silent as a 
shadow, the boy crossed the sand. His heart was hammering in his throat. Into 
the nearest canoe he flung half a dozen green drinking nuts, his fish spear. He 
gave his pareu a brave hitch. Then he picked up a paddle and called to Uri. The 
dog leaped into the bow. There was only Kivi— Mafatu would miss his 
albatross. He scanned the dark sky for sight of the bird, then gave it up and 
turned away. 

The lagoon was as untroubled as a mirror. Upon its black face the stars lay 
tracks of fire. The boy shoved off and climbed into the stern. Noiselessly he 
propelled the canoe forward, sending it half a length ahead with each thrust of 
his paddle. As he drew nearer to the barrier-reef, the thunder of the surf 
increased. The old, familiar dread of it struck at his stomach's pit, and made 
him falter in his paddling. The voices of the Old Ones were fainter and fainter 


The reef thunder mounted: a long-drawn, hushed yet mighty sound that seemed 
to have its being not in the air above but in the very sea beneath. Out beyond 
lurked a terrifying world of water and wind. Out there lay everything most to 
be feared. The boy's hands tightened on his paddle. Behind him lay safety, 
security from the sea. What matter if they jeered? For a second he almost 
turned back. Then he heard Kana's voice once more saying: "Mafatu is a 

The canoe entered the race formed by the ebbing tide. It caught up the small 
craft in its chum, swept it forward like a chip on a millrace. No turning back 

The boy was aware of a sudden whir and fury in the sky above, a beat of 
mighty wings. Startled, he glanced up ward. There was Kivi, his albatross. 
Mafatu's heart lifted. The bird circled slowly in the moonlight, its wings edged 
with silver. It hovered for a moment just over the bow or the canoe, then it rose 
easily, lightly in its effortless flight. Out through the passage in the reef. Out 
into the open ocean. Mafatu gripped the steering paddle and followed. 


Day broke over a gray and dismal world. The canoe lifted and fell idly on the 
glassy swells. Mafatu looked back over his shoulder, searching the horizon for 
a last glimpse of Hikueru; but the atoll had vanished, as if to hide itself forever 
from his concern. 

The matting sail slatted uselessly. But there seemed to be no need of a sail: the 
little canoe was riding one of the mysterious ocean currents that flow in their 
courses through the length and breadth of the Pacific: the Ara Moana, Paths of 
the Sea, as the Ancients called them. They were the ocean currents that had 
carried the Polynesian navigators from island to island in the childhood of the 
world. Mafatu was drifting farther and farther away from his homeland. 

With wide-flapping wings Kivi rose from the bow of the canoe. In ascending 
spirals the bird climbed higher and higher, until at last he was no more than a 
gray speck against the lighter gray of the sky. Mafatu watched his albatross 
disappear and felt a desolation flood his heart. Now there was only Uri to keep 
him company in this hostile world of sky and sea. Uri.... The yellow dog lay 
curled up in the shadow of the bow, opening one eye from time to time to look 
at his master. Wherever Mafatu went, Uri, too, would go. 

All around, as far as the eye could reach, were wastes of leaden water. The 
canoe was the moving center of a limitless circle of sea. The boy shuddered. 

His fingers gripped the paddle convulsively. He thought of Kana and the other 
boys- what would they say when they learned that he had disappeared? And 
Tavana Nui— would there be sorrow in his father's heart? Would he believe that 
Moana, the Sea God, had claimed his son at last? 

It was an ominous, oppressive world at this season of storm. Half a mile distant 
a whale heaved its varnished hulk to the surface, to throw a jet of vapory mist 
high into the air; then it submerged, leaving scarcely a ripple to mark its 
passage. A shoal of flying fishes broke water, skimming away in a silver 
shimmer of flight. A dolphin sped after them, smooth-rolling in pursuit, so 
close that the boy could hear the sound of its breathing. This world of the sea 
was ruled by Nature's harsh law of survival. Mafatu knew the sea with an 
intimacy given to few. He had seen fleets of giant mantas whipping the lagoon 
of Hikueru to a boiling fury; he had seen the mighty cachalot set upon by killer- 
whales and torn to ribbons almost in the blink of an eye; once he had seen an 
octopus as large as the trunk of a tamanu, with tentacles thirty feet long, rise 
from the mile-deep water beyond the barrier-reef.... Ai, this sea! 

Mafatu opened one of the green drinking nuts and tilted back his head to let the 
cool liquid trickle down his parched throat; more refreshing than spring water, 
cool on the hottest days and as sustaining as food. The boy scooped out the 
gelatinous meat for Uri and the dog ate it gratefully. 

The ocean current which held the canoe in its grip seemed to have quickened. 
There was a wind rising, too, in little puffs and gusts. Now the canoe keeled 
over under the sudden attack, while Mafatu scrambled onto the outrigger to 
lend his weight for ballast; then the wind dropped as suddenly as it appeared, 
while the canoe righted itself and the boy breathed freely once again. He 
searched the skies for Kivi. His albatross might have been one of a thousand 
sea birds flying against the roof of the sky, or he might have vanished utterly, 
leaving his friends here in solitary space The bird had led Mafatu out through 
the reef-passage at Hikueru into the open ocean, and now, it seemed, had 
deserted him. 

A storm was making, moving in out of those mysterious belts, which lie north 
and south of the equator, the home of hurricanes. The wind shifted a point, 
bringing with it a heavy squall. Mafatu lowered the sail on the run and gripped 
the steering paddle with hands that showed white at the knuckles. All around 
him now was a world of tumbling water, pig in the hollows greenish on the 
slopes. The wind tore off the combing crests and hung the spray at the sky. 

Like advance scouts of an oncoming army, wind gusts moved down upon the 
canoe, struck at it savagely. So busy was Mafatu with the paddle that there was 
no time for thought. He called a prayer to Maui, God of the Fishernen: 

"Maui e! E matai tu!" 

Somehow the sound of his own voice reassured him. Uri lifted his head, cocked 
his ears, and thumped his tail for a second. The canoe rose to the swells as 
lightly as a gull and coasted like a sled down the frothing slopes. That skill had 
wrought this small canoe! This dugout, hewn from the mighty tamanu tree. It 
swooped and yielded, bucked and scudded, one with the fierce element whose 
back it rode. 

The sky darkened. A burst of lightning lit up the sea with supernatural 
brilliance. An instantaneous crack of thunder shattered the world. Lightning 
again, striking at the hissing water. Mafatu watched it with fascinated eyes. 
Now it was all about him. It ran to the end of the boom in globes of fire that 
exploded and vanished, and in the awful moment of its being it revealed 
mountain shapes of dark water, heaving, shouldering. ... How long could this 
frail craft of wood and sennit resist? Under the combined attack of wind and 
sea it seemed that something must inevitably give way. The wind shrilled a 
fiercer note. Spray stung the boy's flesh, blinded his eyes, and chilled his 

The sad went first- with a split and a roar. Fragments swept off on the back of 
the wind. The cords that held the mast hummed like plucked wires. Then with a 
rending groan the mast cracked. Before Mafatu could leap to cut it clear, it 
napped off and disappeared in a churn of black water. The boy clung to the 
paddle, fighting to keep his canoe from tuning broadside. Water swept aboard 
and out again. Only the buoyancy of tamanu kept the craft afloat. Uri cowered 
in the bow, half submerged, his howls drowned by the roar of the elements. 
Mafatu gripped his paddle for very life, an unreasoning terror powering his 
arms. This sea that he had always feared was rising to claim him, just as it had 
claimed his mother. How rightly he had feared it! Moana, the Sea God had 
been biding his time.... "Someday, Mafatu, I will claim you!" 

The boy lost all sense of time's passage. Every nerve became dulled by tumult. 
The wind howled above his head and still Mafatu clung to the lashed steering 
paddle; clung fast long after strength had vanished and only the will to live 
locked his strong fingers about the shaft. Even death would not loose the grip 
of those fingers. He held his little craft true to the wind. 

There was a wave lifting before the canoe. Many the boy had seen, but this was 
a giants monster livid and hungry. Higher, higher it rose, until it seemed that it 
must scrape at the low-hanging clouds. Its crest heaved over with a vast sigh. 
The boy saw it coming. He tried to cry out. No sound issued from his throat. 
Suddenly the wave was upon him. Down it crashed. Chaos! Mafatu felt the 
paddle torn from his hands. Thunder in his ears. Water strangling him. Terror in 
his soul. The canoe slewed round into the trough. The boy flung himself 
forward, wound his arms about the mid-thwart. It was the end of a world. 

The wave passed. Stunned, gasping, Mafatu raised his head and looked about. 
For a second he could not believe that he still breathed and had being. He saw 
Uri wedged under the bow, choking for air. He pulled the dog free. Then he 
saw that his string of drinking nuts had vanished. His fish spear was gone. The 
knife that hung about his neck by a twist of bark had been torn away. Even his 
pareu of fiber taps fell from his body as water soaked it through. He was naked, 
defenseless, without food or weapon, hurled forward on the breath of the 
hurricane. Numb of all feeling, empty as a shell, still he clung to life, and the 
hours droned by.... 

So gradual was the storm's easing that at first the boy was unaware of it. The 
wind was blowing itself out, moving off into the empty spaces of the world. Uri 
crept toward the prostrate boy, quailing beside him, whimpering softly. 

Night came and passed. 

There was no morning mist to dim the splendor of the sunburst across the 
swinging seas. Far away the wings of an albatross caught its gold as it wheeled 
and planed against the roof of heaven. The only hint of recent storm lay in the 
rough and tumbling waters. As the sun climbed through the hot hours of 
morning, it burned into the boy's body like the sacred fires of the great marae 
of Hikueru. Mafatu's skin blistered and cracked. His tongue swelled in his 
throat. He tried to call out a prayer to Maui, but his voice was thick; the sounds 
which came forth were no more than a hoarse cry. The canoe, stripped of sail 
and meat, without a paddle to guide it in the swift racing current, twisted and 
shifted in the rushing waters. 

As one hour merged into another there came moments of fitful, choking 
slumber, a growing agony of thirst for the boy and his dog. The sun burned into 
them like an inescapable eye. The current which held Mafatu's canoe fast in its 
grip was bearing it swiftly on toward its mysterious destination. 

And thus the day passed, while night once more descended, bringing blessed 
release from the sun. 

Now the air was luminous with promise of another day. Out of the sultry mists 
the sea emerged, blue and violent. With the coming of this new day terror 
raised its head. Mafatu tried to fight it back, to deny its existence; but it gripped 
his heart with clammy fingers, tightened his throat. He flung himself flat on the 
floor of the canoe and buried his face in his arms. He must have cried out then. 
His voice was but a hoarse croak, yet it stirred Uri to life: the dog's ragged tail 
gave one feeble thump. With the ghost of a whimper the animal laid his hot 
nose against the boy's hand. 

The brave thump of his dog's tail touched Mafatu profoundly. He caught the 
animal to him, while a new assurance, a new strength, flooded his being. If Uri 
could have courage to die, surely he, Mafatu, could not do less! In that instant 
he heard a whir and fury in the sky above, a beat of wide wings.... Looking 
upward, the boy's dulled eyes made out the widespread wings of an albatross, 
circling above the canoe. 

"Kivi!" Mafatu cried hoarsely. "Ai, Kivi!" 

Even as he spoke, the bird wheeled slowly then flew off straight-ahead for the 
distant horizon. The boy noticed then that the sea current was carrying him 
almost due south-west. Kivi's flight moved in exact parallel. Once more it 
seemed as if his albatross were leading him onward, just as he had led the 
canoe out of the passage of Hikueru. 

Mafatu scanned the rim of the horizon; it looked as hard as the cut edge of a 
stone. But suddenly the boy's heart gave a great leap and he started forward. It 
couldn't be! It was a cloud.... But the sky was cloudless. Far off in the sea- 
shimmer lay something that was neither sea nor sky. The swells, lifting higher, 
now revealed, now concealed it. That shadow on the horizon— it was land! The 
boy flung himself forward, shaking uncontrollably. 

He seized Uri in his arms and lifted him up, laughing, crying: "Uri I Uri! It's 
land. Land!" 

The dog sniffed at the air and a little whimper broke from him. 

What island could this be? Was it Tahiti, the golden island, whose language 
was akin to that of Hikueru? Or was it, perhaps, one of the terrible dark islands 
of the eaters-of-men? 

Now the current had a westward drift, and it was to the west that the dark 
islands lay.... 

All day, as the canoe drifted onward, the boy watched the distant shadow-shape 
of land, not daring to take his eyes from it lest it vanish into the sea. Hunger 
and thirst were lulled into forgetfulness. There was only this one reality, land- 
escape from the sea. Weak as he was, he still clung to the thwart his lips 
whispering a silent prayer of gratitude. With waning afternoon, the island took 
more distinct form as the canoe drifted nearer. It was high and peaked, its 
valleys blue-shadowed against the paler tone of the sky. Hour by hour, with 
every lift of the swells, the island rose higher and higher, filling Mafatu's soul 
with wonder. Hikueru, the only land he had ever seen, was as flat as his hand; 
but a great single peak crowned this strange island. Trees rose green and fail- 
tier upon tier of them, from the shoreline into the foothills of the purple 
mountain. Uri had caught the scent of the land now and was quivering with 

Then from far off came the first muffed thunder of the reef: the boom of the 
surf high-bursting on the barrier coral. That sound— was it the voice of Moana? 
"Someday, Mafatu, someday." ... Involuntarily the boy shuddered. Would his 
ears never be free of the Sea God's threat? 

Mafatu was powerless to guide his craft. He sensed that the current had 
quickened. He could only watch helplessly as the little canoe, swift as the 
following gulls, rushed to meet the tides of the island where they met and 
churned in a cross sea of conflict. Now across the swells came a sound like a 
chorus of ghostly fishermen weary with their; day's toil: sea birds, always 
complaining, never at rest; while softer, yet rising above it was another sound— 
the voice of the reef itself, quieting with sundown, like the reassuring hush of a 
mother to her child. 

Night stole up from the face of the sea, enveloping the world. There was no 
moon, but the black sky was spangled with unguessed millions of stars: other 
worlds, other suns. To the watching boy, with land in the offing, they seemed 
closer and more friendly. The bottom star of the Southern Cross pointed to the 
end of the world.... A soft land breeze, heavy with a scent of flowers, wafted 
out across the dark waters, tantalizing bitter-sweet. 

Weak with thirst, the boy drifted now into a merciful sleep. He struggled 
against it, like a weary swimmer fighting a riptide, but his head drooped and his 
eyes closed. 

He was aroused at midnight by a thunderous tumult in his ear. All of a sudden 
he felt the canoe under him lifted and flung high into the air. Then down it 
crashed into splinters upon the reef. Boy and dog were hurled headlong into the 
boiling surf. 

The shock of cold water brought Mafatu halfback to consciousness. Blindly he 
struck out, fighting for survival. Uri— where was he? No sign of the dog. The 
boy was aware that the canoe must have been hung over the barrier-reef, for 
here the water was scarcely troubled by wind or tide. Now he was swimming, 
swimming.... Somewhere ahead a strip of beach, salt- white in the darkness, 
lured him onward. His muscles did it of themselves. Only a will to live. A strip 
of sand white in the night.... He caught the gleam of a shark's belly, close at 
hand, but on he swam. His un-hampered limbs moved freely through the water. 

Of a sudden there was something solid beneath his feet. Sand. Mafatu 
stumbled, staggered, fell to his knees in the shallows. His lips moved in dry, 
soundless speech. Lying there with the water rippling and breaking over him, 
he pulled himself half upright, swayed onward. The palms, trooping to the edge 
of the beach, were motionless in the night air. All the world seemed to hold its 
breath as this boy climbed up out of the sea. 

He fell to the sand once more, then, guided by he knew not what impulse, he 
dragged himself to the edge of the jungle. A murmur of water reached his ears, 
soft as a chuckle of pleasant laughter. Water, sweet water. ... Down the face of 
an age-worn rock a small cascade lost itself amid ferns and cool mosses. A 
ragged, strangling cry broke from Mafatu' s throat. He stood upright to full 
height. Then he crashed to the mossy bank. One cheek lay in the cool water. 

The moon lifted above the rim of the palms. It outlined in silver the form of a 
boy thin with hunger, naked as the daystar. It revealed a small wet dog, 
dragging himself across the beach to his master's side. 

Mafatu lay without moving. Before Uri drank, he touched the boy's cheek with 
his hot muzzle. 


There was a fan of light spreading in the east. Mafatu stirred and opened his 
eyes. For a moment he lay there motionless in the cool mosses, forgetful of the 
events which had cast him up on this strange shore. Then it all came crowding 
back upon him, and he scarcely dared to believe that there was earth, solid earth 
beneath him; that once more Moana, the Sea God, had been cheated. He 

struggled to sit upright, then fell back upon one elbow. Uri lay close at hand, 
holding a robber-crab in his forepaws, cracking the tough shell and extracting 
the meat with gusto. There was Kivi, too with his beak tucked back under his 
wing in sleep. Kivi, who had led his friends to this island.... 

Mafatu pulled himself to a sitting position. The action called for more strength 
than he realized. He was giddy with thirst and there was an odd weakness in his 
limbs. His right leg was swollen and painful. He remembered then that he had 
banged it against the coral when the canoe struck. He discovered that there was 
a gash on his calf; he must take care of it, for coral wounds were poisonous. 

The chuckle of the cascade reached his ears and made him aware of a stabbing 
need of water. He plunged his face into the pool and drank deeply. Then, 
prompted more by instinct than by conscious thought, he withdrew, to let the 
water run down his swollen throat sparingly, with caution. Its cool magic stole 
through his tissues, bringing with it new life and restoring force. He sighed, and 
sank back on the messy bank, relishing the strength that quickened his tired 
body. Soon he must find food.... There were thousands of coconut trees on 
every hand, rich with green fruit; but Mafatu was not yet strong enough to 
climb. Later he would try it. Then he would make fire, too; and he must search 
the island to find out if it were inhabited; and there was a shelter to build. Oh, 
there was much to do! He hardly knew where to begin. But now it was enough 
just to lie there and feel strength returning, to know that he was safe from the 
sea. The sea ... He shuddered. Maui, God of the Fishermen, had carried him 
safely across the ocean currents. 

"Uri," the boy muttered thickly, "we're alive! It wasn't all a bad dream. It really 

The answering wag of his dog's tail was further assurance of reality. As 
Mafatu's brain cleared of cobwebs, a sudden thought brought him up swiftly: 
this silent island was not Tahiti. What island was it then? Did it... oh! Did it 
belong to the black eaters-of-men? Were they even now watching him from 
secret places in the jungle, biding their time? He glanced about in 
apprehension. But the solitude was unbroken save for the soft cooing of ghost- 
terns and the gentle plash of the cascade. 

On his left hand, far offshore, the reef boomed to the charging surf; the curve of 
the beach reached out like two great arms to in close the lagoon. Coconuts and 
pandanus trooped in shining legions to the very edge of the sea. A flight of 
green and purple parakeets flashed across the shy and vanished. There was no 

other sign of life. No voices of men; no laughter of children; no footprint in the 

The volcanic peak that formed the background of the Island rose perhaps three 
thousand feet straight up out of the sea. It was the cone of a volcano long 
extinct. From its base ridges of congealed lava flowed down to the distant 
shore. Once, in the dim beginnings of the world, this mountain had belched 
forth fire and brimstone, spreading destruction over the land. But the forgiving 
jungle through fertile centuries had crept back up the slopes, clothing them in 
green, green. 

The boy rose and stood stretching his stiff limbs. The water had restored him 
and he felt much stronger. But he found that the earth heaved with the sea's 
own motion, and he swayed to keep his balance. His leg still pained, and he 
would need the juice of limes to cauterize the coral wound, and purau leaves to 
make a healing bandage. Near by was a tree loaded with wild limes. He 
plucked half a dozen of the fruits, broke them on a bit of coral, and squeezed 
the juice into the wound. He winced as the caustic stung; but when he had 
bound on the leafy bandage with a twist of vine, it seemed that already his leg 
felt better. Soon the swelling would be gone. 

Close at hand he discovered a rode trail made by wild pigs and goats in their 
wanderings across the mountain. The trail led up through the foothills to a high 
plateau, which, the boy decided, would make a splendid lookout. From that 
point of vantage he would be able to survey his entire island and the sea for a 
distance of many miles. 

He followed the path where it led back into the jungle, along the course of the 
swift-flowing stream. The trail sloped up sharply and Mafatu pulled himself up 
by roots and trailing lianas, now climbing, now crawling flat on his stomach. 

He found that he had to stop every now and then to catch his breath. Uri ran 
beside him, dashing off on this scent and that; the dog's shrill, sharp bark 
shattered the morning stillness. 

For a quarter of a mile the coconuts held, beautiful trees that were more 
luxuriant than any in Hikueru. It was always thus in the rich soil of the volcanic 
islands. Then came a belt of breadfruit and wild bananas, of oranges and 
guavas and mangoes. The roots of the mape trees-the island chestnut-twisted 
over the ground in strange, tormented shapes. Vines trailed like aerial ropes 
from the high branches where orchids bloomed, while little parakeets fled on 
swift wings and vanished in the green gloom. Mafatu had never before seen 
woods like these, for Hikueru was open and wind-swept. These endless legions 

of trees seemed to close in upon him, imprison him with reaching arms, with 
heady odors, with eerie light and shadow. Ferns grew higher than a tall man's 
head; the roof of leaves was powdered with starry blossoms. 

By the time Mafatu reached the plateau he was exhausted and his leg throbbed 
with pain. He lay down full length upon the volcanic rock and watched wild 
goats leaping from peak to peak high above his head and heard their shrill 
bleating in the clear air. When he caught his breath he sat up again and looked 
about. The plateau appeared to divide the island into halves. From his vantage 
point the boy could see its whole circumference. He was hoping desperately, 
for some sign of human habitation, yet fearing it too; for who knew whether 
humans might prove friends or enemies? He almost hoped that the islands were 
uninhabited, but if it were. . . he shivered as he realized his isolation. Even at 
sea in his small canoe he had not felt so utterly alone as he did here on this 
strange, high island. Everything about it was alien and forbidding. 

He stood there looking off to the southwest, and all at once his heart gave a 
jump, and he strained forward. A cone-shape, vague as a cloud upon the 
horizon, showed him the existence of another High Island. It must have been 
fifty miles distant. As the boy watched eagerly, scarcely daring to believe the 
testimony of his eyes, he saw what might have been a column of smoke lifting 
high into the air from the peak of the cone. He had heard Grandfather Ruau tell 
of the Smoking Islands, the home of savage tribes. They were the dark islands 
of the eaters-of-men. Was that distant island one such? Perhaps this very island 
upon which he stood belonged to them, too! It was a terrible thought. 

As he stood there surveying his world, the wind that swept up from the wide 
Pacific beat hard against him, whistling in his ears. Almost he had to lean 
against it to keep his balance. It was a southwest wind that blew straight from 
the Smoking Island, whipping the sea to anger. Inside the barrier reef the water 
deepened and shoaled in changing hues. Up here the whole world seemed 
consumed with light and color. Far off a mist of gulls drifted above the 
breaking surf, their hoarse cries as unceasing as the hum within a shell 
Towering above Mafatu' s head, the basalt cone of the island looked as soft in 
hue as an amethyst, broken and worn by a thousand years of wind and storm. 
He observed that the barrier-reef encircled the entire island. There were only 
two openings in the reef through which canoes might enter. One opening lay on 
the side of the island where Mafatu had been cast ashore; the other was here to 
the southwest, facing the distant Smoking Island. In each case a river, which 
flowed from the mountain down into the lagoon, caused the opening; for the 
tiny coral polyp, which builds up its ramparts from the floor of the sea cannot 

withstand fresh water. Wherever a river flows into the sea there will be a 
breach in the barrier-reef. 

Mafatu jumped in alarm as a wild boar crashed through the undergrowth. It was 
so close that the boy caught a glimpse of its dark hide. Uri leaped in pursuit, 
barking furiously. Mafatu relaxed, and a smile crossed his face. Pig roasted 
underground in the hot oven stones of the umu— Aue\ His mouth watered at the 
golden prospect. He would make a spear and kill the puaa, that's what he would 
do ! He was fired with excitement and set for the adventure. Then the thought of 
killing a wild boar in single-handed combat struck him dumb with wonder. 
Why, he would never have dreamed of such a thing in Hikueru! He was 
Mafatu, the Boy Who Was Afraid.... He set his jaw with fierce resolution. He 
had never known a man who killed a wild pig. But Grandfather Ruau, who had 
traveled as far as distant Tahiti, had told how the warriors of that island killed 
pigs in the mountains with naught but a knife for a weapon, bracing themselves 
so that the animal impaled itself upon the blade. It needed a strong arm, and a 
stouter heart. Could he, Mafatu, ever accomplish such a feat? Grandfather 
brought back with him a necklace made from the curling tusks of the boar, and 
Mafatu could remember to this day how the dark-blue scrolls of tattooing on 
the old man's copper flesh set off the handsome ivory teeth. That necklace was 
the envy of every man in Hikueru and its possession earned Grandfather much 

"I will make such a necklace for myself from the tusks," the boy promised 
bravely. "And when I return to Hikueru men will look up to me and say: 'There 
goes Mafatu. He killed the wild boar single-handed!' And Tavana Nui, my 
father, will be filled with pride." The prospect of returning home set another 
train of thought in motion. "I must find a tree, a tamanu, for my canoe," the boy 
said aloud. "I will bum it out, then make an adze of basalt to finish it. I'll plait a 
sail of pandanus. And oh, it will be a wonderful canoe!" 

At that moment his eye fell upon a mango tree loaded with juicy fruit, and he 
plucked a fruit and sank his teeth into the rosy pulp. For a few seconds while he 
ate his fill and the juices ran down over his chin, he forgot all about his canoe; 
forgot that he needed shelter, food, fire, and weapons. Then, his hunger 
satisfied, his mind ran ahead again to the happy day when he would set sail for 
Hikueru, with all his demons put to rout and the bright flame of courage 
burning in his heart. Never again would he be called Mafatu, the Boy Who Was 
Afraid. He stood there taut with purpose, high above the Demon Sea. 

"Maui, God of the Fishermen, hear me!" he pleaded. 'I shall return home one 
day, I swear it. My father, Tavana Nui, will be filled with pride at my 
homecoming. It is a vow that I take now, O Maui. I have spoken." ... 

The wind from the sea swept up around him, its voice warm and soft and 
reassuring in his ear. Maui, God of the Fishermen, had heard and answered. 

Mafatu decided that before he retraced his steps to his own beach he would 
explore the opposite side of the island. The trail dropped from the plateau in a 
series of swift turns and spirals. The boy clambered down, slipping and sliding, 
catching hold of roots and vines to keep from falling. Far below, a cool dark 
stream wound its way through a sheltered valley. Perhaps in that valley he 
would find some people. 

At the base of the ancient crater, long ridges of lava descended to the valley. Of 
a sudden Mafatu remembered an old tale out of his childhood: he had been told 
how the youths of Tahiti slid down the lava slide on sleds of giant leaves! The 
thought had scarcely struck him before he was wrenching off half a dozen great 
leaves from a near-by banana tree. Even as he did so he stopped, suddenly alert. 
They were splendid trees, three times his own height, with broad leaves that- 
waved in the wind like tattered banners. But what caught and held his attention 
were the stems where fruit had grown: they had been severed cleanly by a 
knife! His heart gave a great thump and hung fire. 

He examined the stems with care. Tree after tree had been stripped of fruit, and 
within a week, too. Who had cut these bananas? Well— he would have to find 
out! His lips were grim as he set about making his "sled." He bound the haves 
together with a fibrous rope of vines and soon had a toboggan as long as his 
body. When Mafatu reached the lava slide, he set his sled in place and flung 
himself down upon it. With a shout and a shove he was off. 

Down the natural slide he sped at terrifying speed. Trees whizzed past. Wind 
drove the air from his nostrils. The valley rushed to meet him. He brought up 
with a bump in a thicket of cassi. As he extricated himself from the thorns he 
was still breathing with excitement. Aue, but that was fun! He did not stop to 
think how he would regain his plateau, for at that moment his eye fell upon a 
broad, well- defined path leading down through the jungle. 

"Aia" he exclaimed. "This fine trail was never made by the feet of wild pigs!" 

The boy stood there irresolute and uncertain. Some premonition of danger kept 
him poised, alert, and wary. He was all tempted to retrace his way and explore 

no further. Then an overpowering desire to know who had made that path urged 
him onward. The trail led toward the sea, widening as it went. Soon it opened 
into a cleared circle some hundred feet in circumference. Involuntarily Mafatu 
started forward then drew back with a sharp cry. What he beheld filled him 
with awe and it set him trembling. 

He saw a series of wide stone terraces rising in a pyramid many feet high; on 
top of this pyramid a grotesque idol, hideously ugly, reared in the brilliant 
sunshine. It was an ancient idol, its contours softened with fungus and lichens, 
corroded by the rains of ages. The roots of convolvulus writhed about its base. 
No wind reached this hidden circle, and insects hummed in the hot air. Mafatu 
felt that he was stifling. His heart pounded. A marae - a Sacred Place.... 

Scarcely daring to breathe, he advanced a step. Then he drew up short. Around 
the base of the idol he saw piles of bones, charred, but not old. The platform 
was strewn with them. Bones too large for dogs, too large for pigs. And then 
Mafatu understood. His heart congealed. This was a motu tabu, a Forbidden 
Island. Here the eaters-of-men made their terrible sacrifices to the Varna Ino. 

Mafatu stood rooted, unable to advance, powerless to flee. Uri dunk at his side 
growling low, the hair on his neck lifting stiffly. Involuntarily the boy looked 
up; through an opening in the trees the cloud cone of Smoking Island floated on 
a wine colored sea... Could that distant island be the home of the savage who 
used this motu tabu for their Place of Sacrifices. Was it here that they came in 
their black canoes to turn the night hideous with their drums and ceremonies 
and leaping fires? Mafatu shivered. He had believed that Maui, God of the 
Fishermen, had led him safe to this island. But perhaps after all it had been only 
a cruel prank of Moana, the Sea God, angry at having been cheated. The boy 
seemed to hear Moana saying: "Someday, someday, Mafatu, I will claim you." 

It was evident that the savages had been here recently, for the piles of ashes 
rested undisturbed by wind and storm. The cleared circle seemed to hold its 
breath, locked in a supernatural silence. 

As the boy paused, irresolute, looking up at the towering marae, his eye was 
caught and held by a gleam of light and his heart gave a mighty leap. For he 
saw that a spearhead lay on the sacred platform. Finely ground, sharp-edged; a 
spear for food, a weapon against attack. Dare he take it? It might mean death.... 
His heart pounded. He moved one foot forward. His hands were damp and cold. 
The flashing spearhead winked back at him like an evil eye. The boy's limbs 
turned to water. For a second he was powerless to move. In that moment had a 

score of black men leaped forth from the jungle he could not have stirred or 
cried. He fought himself for control. Taking a deep breath, he whispered: "It is 
you, Maui, who have led me to this island. I know it. Do not forsake me now!" 

Almost it seemed as if he could see dark shadows moving among the ferns and 
hear the phantom whisper of voices. But he edged forward, poised for instant 
flight. There-he was so close to the idol that he could have touched it. He 
reached out his hand. It took every ounce of will. The spear-head glistened 
brightly.... His fingers closed about it, tightened. The towering idol cast a 
shadow of darkness across the green earth. Quickly the boy drew the spear- 
head toward him. But in moving it he dislodged a bone. It fell at his feet. Its 
touch was deathly cold. Mafatu gasped. Then he whipped about and was 
running, running. But he still gripped the spearhead in his fist 

He scrambled back up the path whence he had come. His heart was hammering, 
his leg stiff and sore. The twisted roots of the mape trees reached for him as he 
fled. Never had they seemed so much like grasping fingers, The giant tree-ferns 
turned the jungle to an eerie gloom. The boy was filled with unaccountable 
dread. His limbs seemed weighted. When at last he reached the base of the lava 
slide, he turned at right angles and fought his way upward, hauling, pulling 
himself by vines. 

At last he gained the plateau— drew up breathless and panting. The spear 
flashed in his hand. He looked down at it in wonder. Nothing had happened to 
him! He had touched the marae, dislodged a bone on the place tabu, yet still he 
lived. The sun shone. The sky arched blue. Nothing was changed. And this 
spear, aue'! But it was a beautiful one! It was worth all the risk. Those eaters- 
of-men had wrought well. Now he, Mafatu, could kill the wild pig! Now he 
could defend himself against attack. 

But, most important of all, he knew that he had won a great victory over 
himself. He had forced himself to do something that he dreaded, something that 
took every ounce of his will. The taste of victory salted his lips. He threw out 
his chest and cried: "It is you, Maui, who have helped me! My thanks, my 
thanks to you!" Uri leaped and pranced with excitement at his master's side. 

Back once more at his own shelter, Mafatu kept looking and looking at the 
spear. Happiness flooded through him in warm tides. It was not so much the 
possession of a spear. No ... it was the fact that he had touched the marae. That 
took courage, ah, courage! And as he set about searching for a fire stick he sang 
a song at the top of his young lungs. It was a brave song of Taaroa, the hero- 
god who rose out of the sea to slay the enemies of his people: 

Taaroa puai e! 

Hiti raa no te moana, 

Horoa te puai ia'u, 

Taaroa e!" 

His voice rose clear and strong across the jungle stillness. Sea birds and 
parakeets hushed their cries to listen to the strange, intruding sound. 

At last Mafatu found a fire stick to his liking: a piece of hard wood, bone-dry, 
as large around as his forearm. Then he searched for a smaller piece of the 
same wood. Propping the larger piece against a rock, he squatted on his 
haunches before it and gripped the small sliver in both hands. He began to 
move it back and forth, back and forth upon the hard surface. A groove 
commenced to form. A little pile of wood dust gathered at one extremity of the 
groove. Now the boy's hands were moving faster and faster. Back and forth 
they flew, while perspiration stood out on his forehead and his breath came in 
gasps. At last he was rewarded. A wisp of smoke drifted upward from the wood 
dust. A glow.... The boy seized a few twigs and, cupping his hands with great 
care, blew upon the spark. A flame burst into life. 

He had made fire. 

Weary with the exertion, Mafatu settled back on his haunches and watched the 
leaping flame. Fire! His arms and back ached unmercifully; the wound in his 
leg throbbed. But the warm glow of flame comforted him. It made him think of 
home, of food and warmth and companionship; of faces around the evening 
circle; of the drone of old men's voices, telling their endless tales of daring. 

And he was swept by a sudden wave of loneliness, a longing for the sound of 
his father's deep voice.... He shut his lips tight and fought it back, then leaped 
to his feet and set about his small tasks with a great show of business. He 
would not think of those things. He would not remember— if he could help it. 
Now he would have cooked food, warmth when he was wet through, and the 
first implement with which to set about building his canoe. Tomorrow he 
would fell a tree by fire and start to work upon his dugout. He would make fire 
only by day, and then not too large a blaze, for its glow might be visible on the 
distant island of the eaters-of-men. Thus he forced his thoughts into safer 

He threw breadfruit into the fire. There it would stay until it was charred black 
and thoroughly cooked. Next, he laid hall a dozen fei — wild bananas— in the 

coals, covering them with wet leaves so that slowly they would steam through. 
While his dinner was cooking he had yet another task to do. He set about it at 
once: he tore off half a dozen fronds of a low-growing coconut tree; then he 
began to plait them into flat, mat like screens. These, made into a lean-to, 
would be his shelter against -wind and storm. Several layers of them would be 

"If only I had my knife, Uri," the boy groaned. "How simple it would be! I 
must search the lagoon for a pahua shell. It grinds down to a fine cutting edge. 
We'll soon have a good knife." 

Uri thought so, too; that was evident from the motion of his tireless tail. 

"Perhaps," Mafatu thought suddenly, "I might find a knife at the Sacred Place 
of the eaters-of-men." Then he shook his head. "No! I shall never return to that 
terrible marae tabul” 

But each day, he resolved, he would climb to the high plateau, his lookout to 
the southwest. Someday, someday the eaters-of-men would come back. Before 
long, perhaps. ... Mafatu was certain of it, as he was certain that the sun shone 
and was warm. It was inevitable. And when the black men came, he would 
have to leave, or die. 

The boy looked fondly at the tamanu tree that he had marked already for his 
canoe. "Tomorrow I shall start work upon it," he promised. And said, "what a 
canoe I shall build! Deep and strong, but light. An outrigger as swift and 
powerful as a shark's tail. And when my father sees it he will say: 'Aue, my son, 
but they build fine canoes in that island you have come from.' And then I will 
say: 'But I Built it myself, my father.' And then he will say: 'Aia.' Is it possible— 
this fine canoe?' " 

The fire blazed brightly and the breadfruit gave forth a tempting odor. Jets of 
vapor rose from the steaming bananas. Uri snuggled down at his master's side 
and Mafatu hugged the dog close. "Ah, there's food for you, too, my brother," 
he cried. "And tomorrow we shall have fish. See my spear, how bravely it 
flashes! I will make a new shaft for it, and then I shall kill the ma'o, the shark! 
And the wild pig, too. Aia Uri, you will see!" 

The boy pulled the breadfruit from the fire and broke it in half. Its white, flaky 
meat was packed with sustenance; a little like bread in taste, a trifle like potato, 
better than either. The boy gave half of it to Uri. The dog circled around, 
sniffing longingly as he waited for his dinner to cool. The bananas popped from 

their skins while their juices bubbled in the heat. Deftly Mafatu slid them out of 
the fire, transferred them to a broad leaf that served as a plate. Then, unmindful 
of burned fingers, he fell upon the hot food. He was famished. It seemed that he 
had never been so hungry in his whole life, and for a time there was only the 
sound of his greedy munching. Never had food tasted so good! 

He ate and ate, until his stomach could hold no more. Then a great weariness 
stole through his limbs. With a sigh of deep content he sank back upon the cool 
sand and closed his eyes. Uri snuggled close, warm and friendly against his 
side. Overhead, the plaited fronds of the palms formed a snug shelter. 
"Someday," the boy thought drowsily, "I will make my roof water-tight, but not 
yet." ... 

The tide was running out of the lagoon with the sunset in a whispering hum of 
sound, like the reassuring hush of a mother to her child. Mafatu lay there under 
his lean-to, relaxed in every nerve. He had fire, food, and shelter. He had faced 
Moana, the Sea God. He had dared the sacred marae of the eaters-of-men to 
win his spear. There was a new- found confidence singing in his heart. He had 
found a new belief in himself. 

At peace with himself and his world, he slept. 


The very next morning Mafatu set about building his canoe. He had banked his 
fire the night before in the natural shelter of a cave and he resolved never to let 
the sparks die out. For it was altogether too difficult to make fire with the fire 
stick, and it required too much time. In Hikueru, for that reason, the fires were 
always kept burning, and it was the special charge of the younger members of a 
family to see that fuel was ever at hand. Woe unto the small boy who let the 
family fires go out! 

While his breakfast roasted in the coals, the boy cleared the brush away from 
the base of the great tamanu. There was no wood better for canoe building than 
this. It was tough, durable, yet buoyant in the water. Mafatu could fell his tree 
by fire, and bum it out, too. Later he would grind an adze out of basalt for the 
finished work. The adze would take a long time, but he had made them often in 
Hikueru and he knew just how to go about it. The boy was beginning to realize 
that the hours he had spent fashioning utensils were to stand him now in good 
stead. Nets and knives and shark line, implements and shell fishhooks - he 
knew how to make them all. How he had hated those tasks in Hikueru! He was 

quick and clever with his hands, and now he was grateful for the skill, which 
was his. 

The fire crackled and snapped about the base of the tamanu tree. When at 
length it had eaten well into the trunk, Mafatu climbed aloft and crept 
cautiously out upon a large branch that overhung the beach. Then taking firm 
hold of the branches above his head, he began to jump up and down. As the fire 
ate deeper into the trunk, the tree began to lean under the boy's weight. With a 
snap and a crash it fell across the sand. As it fell, Mafatu leaped free of the 
branches, as nimbly as a cat. 

"That's enough for today, Uri," he decided. "Tomorrow we'll build our fires 
down the trunk and start burning it out. When the eaters-of-men come, we will 
be ready ! " 

In the meantime there were many other things to do: a fish trap of bamboo, a 
net of sennit, a fishhook, too, if only he could find some bone. And while the 
canoe was building, how could Mafatu get out to the distant reef to set his trap, 
unless first he made a raft of bamboo? 

The boy decided that the raft was of first importance. He chose a score or more 
of fine bamboos as large around as his arm, felling them by fire; then he lashed 
them together with strips of purau bark, making a sturdy raft of two 
thicknesses. It would serve him well until his canoe should be finished. 

As he worked, his mind returned again and again to the wild pig he was 
determined to kill. How could he go back to Hikueru without a boar's-tooth 
necklace? Why, that necklace was almost as important as a canoe! For by that 
token men would know his strength and courage. When the day came that he 
should leave this high island, he would sail to the north and east. Somewhere in 
that quarter lay the Cloud of Islands; the great Tuamotu Archipelago which 
extends across a thousand miles of ocean and ten degrees of latitude. Within 
those reef-spiked channels floated Hikueru, his homeland.... There was no 
doubt in his mind that he would find it; for Maui, who had led him safe to this 
shore, would someday guide him home again. But first, Mafatu knew, he must 
prove himself worthy. Men should never again call him Mafatu, the Boy Who 
Was Afraid. And Tavana Nui should say with pride: "Here is my son, come 
home from the sea." 

Kivi, the albatross, came and went on his mysterious errands, emerging out of 
blue space, vanishing into it again. At sundown, regularly, the white bird came 
wheeling and circling, to alight clumsily on the beach almost at Mafatu' s side, 

while Uri pranced about and greeted his friend after his own fashion. As for 
Uri, he was having the time of his life; for there were countless sea birds 
nesting along the shore to be chased and put to rout; and wild goats and pigs in 
the mountains to make life exciting enough for any dog. 

Mafatu had discovered a mulberry tree. He stripped off the bark and removed 
the inner white lining. Then he wet the fiber and laid it upon a flat stone and set 
about beating it with a stick of wood. The fiber spread and grew thinner under 
the persistent beating. The boy added another strip, wet it, and beat it into the 
first one; then another and another. Soon he had a yard of "cloth" to serve as a 
pcireu. It was soft and white, and now at last he was clothed. 

"Before I go home I will make a dye of owl and paint a fine design on my 
pcireu" the boy promised himself. "I must not go back ill-clothed and empty- 
handed. He must know that I have conquered the sea, and made the land serve 
me as well." 

The days passed in a multitude of tasks that kept Mafatu busy from dawn till 
dark. His lean-to grew into a three-sided house with bamboo walls and a thatch 
of palm leaves. The fourth wall was open to the breezes of the lagoon. It was a 
trim little house and he was proud of it. A roll of woven mats lay on the floor; 
there was a shelf in the wall with three bowls cut from coconut shells; bone 
fish- hooks dangled from a peg; there was a coil of tough sennit, many feet 
long; an extra pareu of tapa waterproofed with gum of the artu tree, for wet 
weather. All day long the wind played through the openings in the bamboo 
walls and at night lizards scurried through the thatch with soft rustlings. 

One morning, wandering far down the beach, Mafatu came upon a sheltered 
cove. His heart gave a leap of joy; for there, white gleaming in the sun, was all 
that remained of the skeleton of a whale. It might not have meant very much to 
you or to me; but to Mafatu it meant knives and fishhooks galore, splintered 
bone for darts and spears, a shoulder blade for an ax. It was a veritable treasure 
trove. The boy leaped up and down in his excitement. "Uri!" he shouted. 

"We're rich! Come-help me drag these bones home!" 

His hands seemed all thumbs in his eagerness; he tied as many bones as he 
could manage into two bundles. One bundle he shouldered himself. The other 
Uri dragged behind him. And thus they returned to the campsite, weary, but 
filled with elation. Even the dog seemed to have some understanding of what 
this discovery meant; or if not, he was at least infected with his master's high 
spirits. He leaped about like a sportive puppy, yapping until he was hoarse. 

Now began the long process of grinding the knife and the axe. Hour after long 
hour, squatting before a slab of basalt, Mafatu worked and worked, until his 
hands were raw and blistered and the sweat ran down into his eyes. The knife 
emerged first, since that was the most imperative. Its blade was ten inches long, 
its handle a knob of joint. It was sharp enough to cut the fronds of coconut 
trees, to slice off the end of a green nut. Ai, but it was a splendid knife! All 
Mafatu's skill went into it. It would be a fine weapon as well, the boy thought 
grimly, as he ground it down to a sharp point. Some sea robber had been 
breaking into his bamboo trap and he was going to find out who the culprit 
was! Probably that old hammerhead shark who was always cruising around.... 
Just as if he owned the lagoon! 

Fishing with a line took too long when you were working against time. Mafatu 
could not afford to have his trap robbed. Twice it had been broken into, the 
stout bamboos crushed and the contents eaten. It was the work either of a shark 
or of an octopus. That was certain. No other fish was strong enough to snap the 
tough bamboo. 

Mafatu's mouth was set in a grim line as he worked away on his knife. That old 
hammerhead-undoubtedly he was the thief! Mafatu had come to recognize him; 
for every day when the boy went out with his trap, that shark, larger than all the 
others, was circling around, wary and watchful. The other sharks seemed to 
treat the hammerhead with deference. 

Hunger alone drove Mafatu out to the reef to set his trap. He knew that if he 
was to maintain strength to accomplish all that lay ahead he must have fish to 
add to his diet of fruit. But often as he set his trap far out by the barrier reef, the 
hammerhead would approach, roll over slightly in passing, and the cold gleam 
of its eye filled Mafatu with dread and anger. 

"Wait, you!" the boy threatened darkly, shaking his fist at the ma'o. "Wait until 
I have my knife! You will not be so brave then, Ma'o. You will run away when 
you see it flash." 

But the morning that the knife was finished, Mafatu did not feel so brave as he 
would have liked. He hoped he would never see the hammerhead again. 
Paddling out to the distant reef, he glanced down from time to time at the long- 
bladed knife where it hung about his neck by a cord of sennit. It wasn't after all, 
such a formidable weapon. It was only a knife made by a boy from a whale's 
rib. Uri sat on the edge of the raft, sniffing at the wind. Mafatu always took his 
dog along, for Uri howled unmercifully if he were left behind. And Mafatu had 
come to rely upon the companionship of the little yellow dog. The boy talked 

with the animal as if he were another person, consulting with him, arguing, and 
playing when there was time for play. They were very close, these two. 

This morning as they approached the spot where the fish trap was anchored, 
Mafatu saw the polished dorsal of the hated hammerhead circling slowly in the 
water. It was like a triangle of black basalt, making a little furrow in the water 
as it passed. 

"Aia, Ma'o!" the boy shouted roughly, trying to bolster up his courage. "I have 
my knife today, see! Coward who robs traps - catch your own fish!" 

The hammerhead approached the raft in leisurely fashion; it rolled over 
slightly, and its gaping jaws seemed to curve in a yawning grin. Uri ran to the 
edge of the raft, barking furiously; the hair on the dog's neck stood up in a 
bristling ridge. The shark, unconcerned, moved away. Then with a whip of its 
powerful tail it rushed at the bamboo fish trap and seized it in its jaws. Mafatu 
was struck dumb. The hammerhead shook the trap as a terrier might shake a rat. 
The boy watched, fascinated, unable to make a move. He saw the muscles work 
in the fish's neck as the great tail thrashed the water to fury. The trap splintered 
into bits, while the fish within escaped only to vanish into the shark's mouth. 
Mafatu was filled with impotent rage. The hours he had spent making that trap. 
But all he could do was shout threats at his enemy. 

Uri was running from one side of the raft to the other, furious with excitement. 
A large wave sheeted across the reef. At that second the dog's shift in weight 
tipped the raft at a perilous angle. With a helpless yelp, Uri slid off into the 
water. Mafatu sprang to catch him but he was too late. 

Instantly the hammerhead whipped about. The wave slewed the raft away. Uri, 
swimming frantically, tried to regain it. There was desperation in the brown 
eyes— the puzzled eyes so faithful and true. Mafatu strained forward. His dog. 
His companion.... The hammerhead was moving in slowly. A mighty rage 
stormed through the boy. He gripped his knife. Then he was over the side in a 
clean- curving dive. 

Mafatu came up under his enemy. The shark spun about. Its rough hide scraped 
the flesh from the boy's shoulder. In that instant Mafatu stabbed. Deep, deep 
into the white belly. There was a terrific impact. Water lashed to foam. 

Stunned, gasping, the boy fought for life and air. It seemed that he would never 
reach the surface. Aue, his lungs would burst! ... At last his head broke water. 
Putting his face to the surface, he saw the great shark turn over, fathoms deep. 

Blood flowed from the wound in its belly. Instantly gray shapes rushed in- 
other sharks, tearing the wounded hammerhead to pieces. 

Uri— where was he? Mafatu saw his dog then. Uri was trying to pull himself up 
on the raft. Mafatu seized him by the scruff and dragged him up to safety. Then 
he caught his dog to him and hugged him close, talking to him foolishly. Uri 
yelped for joy and licked his master's cheek. 

It wasn't until Mafatu reached shore that he realized what he had done. He had 
killed the ma'o with his own hand, with naught but a bone knife. He could 
never have done it for himself. Fear would have robbed his arm of all strength. 
He had done it for Uri, his dog. And he felt suddenly humble, with gratitude. 

Now the adze was completed. Thus the canoe, too, was beginning to take 
finished shape. It was fifteen feet long, three feet deep, and scarcely a foot 
wide. Often as he worked, the boy would pause to stand off and admire his 
craft. It was a beautiful canoe! How proud his father would be.... Alas that it 
was such slow work. 

When the hull had been hollowed out, it must be smoothed off with the adze 
and caulked with artu gum. Then a mast must be made of pukatea, straight and 
true; a sail woven from pandanus. And there was rigging to be made of sennit, 
tough and strong as wire. The craft would have been finished sooner if only 
there were not so many things to interfere. Every day, for example, Mafatu 
climbed the plateau to his lookout. He had not missed one day since he arrived 
at the island. He knew that when the eaters-of-men came they would sail by 
day; they would have to beat against the prevailing wind. It would take them 
many hours to come from Smoking Island. Mafatu would be able to see them 
from his lookout long before they arrived. If only he could be ready before they 
came! He must, he must! But that trip up the mountain every day took so much 
precious time. His canoe would have been finished days ago, but for that. 

"Today I will not go," the boy thought, as his adze whirred and chipped. "It 
takes too long." 

Then he sighed and laid down the adze. Caution was the better part of wisdom. 
He picked up his shining spear with its new shaft and turned toward the trail 
that led to the high plateau. Uri leaped ahead, his nose keen-pointed to the 

This day as Mafatu climbed the rough trail through the jungle, he was 
preoccupied, lost in his thoughts. His mind was not in this business at all: he 

was thinking about the rigging of his canoe, planning how he could strengthen 
it here, tighten it there. Some instinct of danger must have made him pause, 
warning him to beware. There it was- just a rustle in the undergrowth. Scarcely 
louder than an insect's hum. The boy drew up tense and listening. Uri had 
dashed off on some wild-goose chase of his own. The boy stood rooted, alert. 
He saw it then: a wild boar with lowered head. Eyes red with hate. The flash of 
its wicked tusks. 

The animal pawed the ground suddenly. Its grunting snort broke the stillness. 
Mafatu knew a blind impulse to turn and run. Then he drew a deep breath and 
shouted out a challenge: 

"Puaa viril Wild pig! I, Mafatu, have come to kill you!" The boar charged. 

Over the ground it tore. Foam flew back from its tusks. The boy braced 
himself. He met the charge with a perfectly timed thrust of the spear. The boar 
impaled itself, shoulder-deep, upon the spearhead. 

Mafatu was thrown off balance, sent spinning headlong. Over and over he 
rolled. He leaped to his feet in a panic, defenseless. But the boar toppled, gave 
a convulsive shudder, lay still. 

Mafatu was struck dumb. He had killed a wild pig! For a second he could not 
grasp the wonderful truth of it. Then he leaped wildly into the air, shouting: 
'Aue te aue! I have killed the puaal Do you hear me, Tavana Nui? I, your son, 
have killed a boar! Ho! Ha!" 

Uri came leaping out of the jungle and barked himself hoarse at sight of the pig. 

"A fine one you are!" Mafatu joked at his dog. "Where were you when I needed 
you? Off chasing butterflies, that's you! Was it for this I saved you from the 
teeth of the ma'o? I've a mind not to give you one mouthful of paau." 

Uri hung his head and dropped his tail, then brightened as Mafatu laughed 
joyously. "Foolish one! Here— drag your share." 

The boy made a rude sled of bamboo and loaded the heavy animal onto it. Then 
he hitched a stout liana about Uri's neck and the dog threw his weight into the 
task. The two started home in triumph with their burden, Mafatu singing at the 
top of his lungs a lusty song of blood and battle. He was all-Polynesian now, 
charged with the ancient fierceness of his race. Victory coursed like fire 
through his veins. There was nothing he would not have dared! Nothing he 
feared! Aia, but life was good! 

When they reached the campsite, Mafatu built up a roaring fire and set a pile of 
stones to heat. While the stones were heating, the boy cleaned the pig at the 
water's edge, then stuffed its empty belly with succulent ti leaves and red 
bananas. When at last the oven stones were white and smoking, Mafatu 
dragged the pig back to the fire and rolled it upon the hot umu. Then he covered 
it with layer upon layer of plantain leaves - dozens of them— to hold in the 
steam and to allow the pork to cook through slowly. Uri leaped about, sniffing 
at the delicious odors, barking his delight. Pork! After weeks of fish and fish 
and fish, how good it would taste! Besides, fish was not good for dogs. Too 
many bones. Kivi, no meat eater, looked on calmly, wondering what all this 
disturbance was about; the bird was content with a coconut that Mafatu split 
open for him, that he might join in the feast. 

Mafatu's mouth fairly watered in anticipation. But even as he settled back to 
await the feast, his hands were busy: the sun gleamed brightly on the curving 
tusks that already he was making into a necklace. They formed almost a 
complete circle and were as white as bleached coral. Aue! How men's tongues 
would chatter when they saw this fine necklace! Even Grandfather's had been 
no finer. 

A strange picture on that lonely beach under the palms: a pig roasting on a fire; 
a boy lean and brown and whip strong, making a boar's-tooth necklace; a 
prancing yellow dog; a calm, wide-winged albatross pecking at a coconut. 

Mafatu slipped the necklace about his throat, and he could fairly feel its magic 
charging him with strength! He pulled the oven stones away from the umu, and 
there lay the pig, golden, glowing, done to a turn. Rich juices ran in little 
rivulets down its sides. And as Mafatu ate, one thought alone filled his mind, 
overshadowing even his enjoyment of this rare feast: soon, soon now he would 
be ready. He had killed the ma'o. The puaa, too. His canoe would soon be 
completed. And then— then he would return to Hikueru! 

The canoe was finished. 

Mafatu lashed the tough purau outrigger into place with hands that trembled. 
The woven sail was complete and ready; the rigging strong as wire. It was all 
over! The boy could hardly wait to get his craft into water. Placing logs under 
the curving stem, he gave a shove and a push. The canoe stirred, moved 
forward, quick with life. Another shove and the craft slid into the lagoon. And 
there it floated lightly, easily as a gull poised for flight. Mafatu stood back and 
surveyed it with shining eyes. He could hardly believe that all these weeks of 

labor were at an end. Suddenly he was quiet. With lifted head he offered up the 
prayer with which all ships were launched at Hikueru: 

"Taaroa, Mighty One! 

My thanks to you 

In this task completed. 

Guide it on your back 

To safe harbor. 

Taaroa, e!" 

The bay leaped into the stern, picked up the paddle, and ran up the sail. Uri 
sprang into the bow, yelping for very joy. Kivi sailed far overhead on 
widespread wings. The breeze caught the sail, swelled it to a golden curve. The 
outrigger leaned at a sharp angle and sped ahead toward the distant reef. Spray 
flew back from the prow and Mafatu's heart beat high. He let out the sheet, 
wrapped the sennit rope around his foot, and gripped the steering paddle with 
both hands. He was filled with pride in his canoe. Never had he been as happy 
as in this moment. 

Out toward the black reef, closer and closer the canoe skimmed on a wide arc 
of speed. It was late afternoon and the sun was setting in a blaze of glory, but 
the boy was reluctant to turn back. He knew that he should have climbed to the 
lookout that morning. This was the first day he had neglected that duty. But the 
temptation to complete his canoe had been too great. Tomorrow at daybreak he 
would climb the plateau for the last time. And then— and then Hikueru! 

As the little craft skimmed out toward the barrier-reef, the thunder of the surf 
increased in volume to an overwhelming sound. Waves, born far south in the 
Antarctic ice fields— the home of all waves— broke their backs upon this coral 
rampart. Gathering far out, they charged the reef: sea horses with clinging 
manes of foam. The surf shot skyward and above its mist sea gulls swooped 
and darted. The reef thunder no longer filled Mafatu with unease. He had lived 
too close to it these past weeks. Out here, half a mile from shore, detached from 
all security of the land, he had come to believe that at last he had established a 
truce with Moana, the Sea God. His skill against the oceans might. 

The boy skirted along the edge of the reef, lowered his sail, and dropped 
overboard the lump of coral, which served as anchor. Then he took out his fish 

line and baited the hook with a piece of crabmeat. He wanted to enjoy to the 
full this new sensation of confidence in himself, this freedom from the sea's 
threat. He looked back at the land fondly, but without longing. The high peak, 
purple in the waning light, stood somber against the sky. The valleys were 
shadowed with mystery. All these weeks he had lived close to this island and 
been grateful for its bounty. But he had been born on an atoll— a low island- 
and all his life had been spent in the spaciousness of open sea and wind-swept 
palms. There was something gloomy and oppressive in this high island. The 
reef— this was a part of his heritage. The sea, at last, was as much his element as 
the land. 

The realization flooded through him in a warm tide of content. He lowered his 
fish line, fastened it to the midthwart, and looked deep down into the clear 
water. He saw a scarlet rock-cod materialize, hang in the shadow of the canoe, 
motionless save for the slight movement of its gills. With a sudden flip of the 
tail it vanished. 

How fantastic was that undersea world! The boy saw branching stag horn 
corals, as large as trees, through which jellyfishes floated like a film of fog. He 
saw shoals of tiny mullet, miniature arrowheads-the whole school scarcely 
larger than a child's hand. A conger eel drew its ugly head back within a 
shadowy cavern. Here beside the wall of reef Mafatu's bamboo fish trap hung 
suspended; before he returned to shore he would empty the trap. It had been 
undisturbed since the hammer-head was killed, and each day had yielded up a 
good supply of mullet or crayfish or lobsters. Here the wall of living coral 
descended to the lagoon floor. Its sides were pierced with caves of darkness 
whose mystery the boy felt no desire to explore. Far below, perhaps forty feet, 
the sandy floor of the lagoon was clear and green in the dappled light. A parrot 
fish emerged from the gloom, nibbled at Mafatu's bait, then vanished. 

"Aue! These fish must be well fed. My piece of crab meat does not tempt 

The boy decided to give it up and content himself with the fish in the bamboo 
trap. He leaned over the gunwale and pulled it up out of water. Through the 
openings in the cage he could see three lobsters, blue-green and fat. What luck! 
But as he dragged the heavy, wet trap over the gunwale, the fiber cord that 
fastened his knife about his neck caught on an end of bamboo. The trap slipped. 
The cord snapped. The knife fell into the water. 

With dismay the boy watched it descend. It spiraled rapidly, catching the 
sunlight as it dropped down, down to the sandy bottom. And there it lay, just 

under the edge of a branching stag horn. Mafatu eyed it uncertainly. His knife 
the knife he had labored so hard to shape.... He knew what he ought to do: he 
should dive and retrieve it. To make another knife so fine would take days. 
Without it he was seriously handicapped. He must get his knife! But ... 

The reef-wall looked dark and forbidding in the fading light. Its black holes 
were the home of the giant /e&e-the octopus.... The boy drew back in sudden 
panic. He had never dived as deep as this. It might be even deeper than he 
thought for the clarity of the water confused all scale of distance. The knife 
looked so very near, and yet ... There it lay, gleaming palely. 

The boy gazed down at it with longing. He remembered the morning he had 
found the whale's skeleton; the first one he had ever seen. Surely Maui, God of 
the Fishermen, had sent the whale there to die for Mafatu' s use! The long hours 
that had gone into the making of the knife.... It had saved Uri's life, too. And 
now Uri, in the bow of the canoe, was looking at his master with eyes so 
puzzled and true. 

Mafatu drew a deep breath. How could he abandon his knife? Would Maui (the 
thought chilled him) think him a coward? Was he still Mafatu, the Boy Who 
Was Afraid? 

He leaped to his feet, gave a brave hitch to his pareu. Then he was over side in 
the water. He clung for a moment to the gunwale, breathing deeply. Inhaling, 
then releasing the air in a long-drawn whistle, he prepared his lungs for the 
pressure of the depths. Many times he had seen the pearl divers do it. In the 
canoe lay a coral weight fastened to a length of sennit. Mafatu took this weight 
and held the cord in his toes. With a final deep breath he descended feet first, 
allowing the weight to pull him downward. At about twenty feet he released the 
weight, turned over, and swam for the bottom. 

Here the water was cool and green. The sunlight filtered from above in long, 
oblique bands. Painted fishes fled before him He saw a giant pahua, a clam 
shell, five feet across and taller than he: its open lips waiting to snap shut upon 
fish or man. Green fronds waved gently as if in some submarine wind. A 
shadow moved above the boy's head and he glanced upward in alarm: only a 
sand shark cruising harmlessly.... An eel, like a cold waving ribbon, touched his 
leg and was gone. 

The knife-there it lay. How sharp and bright it looked. Now the boy's hands 
were upon it. He seized it and sprang upward toward the light. 

In that second a whiplash shot out from a cavern at his back: a lash like a length 
of rubber hose. The boy caught the flash of vacuum cups that lined its under 
surface. Panic stabbed him. Thefeke-the octopus! Another lash whipped forth 
and encircled his waist. It drew taut. Then the octopus came forth from its den 
to face and kill its prey. 

Mafatu saw a purplish globe of body, eyes baleful and fixed as fate; a parrot- 
mouth, cruel and beaked, that worked and wobbled.... Another whiplash 
encircled the boy's leg. The knife- desperately Mafatu stabbed for one of the 
eyes. Then darkness clouded the water as the octopus siphoned out his venom. 
There in submarine gloom a boy fought for his life with the most dreaded 
monster of the deep. He could feel the sucking pressure of those terrible 
tentacles. ... His wind was almost gone. 

Blindly Mafatu stabbed again, this time for the other eye. The blow, so wildly 
driven, went true. The terrible grip relaxed, slacked. The tentacles grew limp. 
Then Mafatu was springing upward, upward, drawn up toward light and air and 

When he reached the canoe he had hardly enough strength to cling to the 
gunwale. But cling he did, his breath coming in tearing gasps. Uri, beside 
himself, dashed from one end of the canoe to the other, crying piteously. 

Slowly strength returned to the boy's limbs, warmth to his chilled soul. He 
dragged himself into the canoe and collapsed on the floor. He lay there, as in a 
trance, for what seemed an eternity. 

The sun had set. Dusk was rising from the surface of the sea. Mafatu struggled 
upright and peered cautiously over the side of the canoe. The inky water had 
cleared. Down there, forty feet below, the octopus lay like a broken shadow. 
The white cups of its tentacles gleamed dully in the watery gloom. With 
sharkline and hook the boy fished up the feke 's body. As he dragged-it into the 
canoe one of the tentacles brushed his ankle. Its touch was clammy and of a 
deathly chill. Mafatu shuddered and shrank away. He bad eaten squid and small 
octopi ever since he was born, but he knew that he could not have touched a 
mouthful of this monster. He raised his spear and plunged it again and again 
into the body of his foe, shouting aloud a savage paean of triumph. A thousand 
years of warrior-heritage sounded in his cry. 

Once more Maui had protected him! What to do with the feke'? The boy 
decided that he would cut off the tentacles; they would dry and shrink, but they 
would be still of prodigious size, and the people of Hikueru would say: "See, 
Mafatu killed the feke' single handed. Aue' te aue!" 

Dusk, almost in an instant, deepened into night As Mafatu turned the nose of 
his canoe toward shore, the first stars were appearing, bright and close and 
friendly. There was the Southern Cross, pointing toward the end of the 
world.... The lagoon was a black mi rror dusted with starshine. Far below in the 
dark waters, illuminated fishes moved and had their being: meteors, galaxies, 
and constellations under the sea. The boy saw a line of light, narrow as a blade, 
as the rare polo flashed away in its everlasting quest. A sand shark, 
phosphorescent ghost, darted after the pala - seized it in a swirl of luminous 
mist. The mist faded slowly. It was blood. Mysterious life forces were 
completing their cycle in those dark depths, even as on the earth and in the air 
above. This sea— no more to be feared than earth or air: only another element 
for man to conquer. And he, Mafatu, had killed the f eke. Aue te aue! 

As he dipped his paddle with a swinging rhythm, the rhythm of his thoughts 
swung in unison: "Tomorrow I shall start home! Tomorrow, tomorrow! " 

The very thought of it set him aquiver. "Tomorrow, tomorrow!" he had been 
here so long. ... 

He dragged the canoe up on the beach, placed the logs under the curving stem 
so that he might launch it easily on the morrow. He would never need to climb 
the high plateau to the lookout again. Let the eaters-of-men come! 

As Mafatu waited for his supper to cook, he set about preparing for his 
homeward journey; he would start at daybreak with the ebbing tide. He would 
be ready. He filled bamboo containers with fresh water, sealed them with 
leaves that were gummed into place, watertight and secure. Then he stored 
them carefully in the canoe. He prepared a poi of bananas and sealed it, 
likewise, into containers; there it would ferment and sour and become delicious 
to the taste. Then he picked a score or more of green drinking nuts and flung 
them into the canoe. And as he trotted back and forth across the beach and his 
supper steamed on the fire, one thought alone, like an insistent drum beat, 
echoed in the boy's heart: "Tomorrow I shall start home! Tomorrow, 

Never again need he hang his head before his people. He had fought the sea for 
life and won. He had sustained himself by his own wits and skill. He had faced 
loneliness and danger and death, if not without flinching, at least with courage. 
He had been, sometimes, deeply afraid, but he had faced fear and faced it 
down. Surely that could be called courage. 

When he lay down to sleep that night there was a profound thankfulness in his 
heart. 'Tavana Nui," he whispered, "my father-I want you to be proud of me" 

He fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep. 

Before dawn he was awakened by a sound of measured booming, like the 
beating of a supernatural drum. Thump thump THUMP! Thump-thump 
THUMP! It rose above the thunder of the reef, solemn and majestic, filling the 
night with thunder. 

Instantly awake, listening with every sense, Mafatu sat upright on the mats. Far 
out on the reef the seas burst and shot upward like sheeted ghosts in the 
moonlight. There it came again: Thump-thump THUMP! Thump-thump 
THUMP! Steady as a pulse, beating in the heart of darkness. ... 

And then Mafatu knew. The eaters-of-men had come. 


A CHILL sweat broke out over Mafatu' s body. He crouched there listening, 
unable for the moment to make a single movement. The rhythmic message that 
boomed across the mountain brought him a message of doom. Thump-thump 
THUMP! Thump-thump THUMP! It shivered along his nerves, setting his hair 
on edge. 

Warily, moving with utmost caution, Mafatu crept out of the house. The beach 
was softly brilliant in the light of the waning moon. Any figure moving along 
the sand he could have seen instantly. He stopped, every nerve strung like a 
wire: the beach was deserted, the jungle silent and black with mystery. The boy 
rose to his feet. Swift as a shadow he turned into the undergrowth where the 
trail led to the high plateau. The jungle had never seemed so dark, so ominous 
with peril. The tormented roots of the mo trees clutched at him. Lianas tripped 
him. Tree-ferns, ghostly in the half-light, rustled about him as he passed, their 
muted hush seeming to say: "Not yet, Mafatu, not yet." ... 

By the time he reached the plateau he was breathless and panting. He dropped 
to his knees and crawled forward, an inch or two at a time. One false move 
might spell destruction. But he had to know, he had to know. ... 

Thump-thump THUMP! 

The measured booming grew louder with every inch that he advanced, Now it 
pounded in his ears, reverberated through his body, thrummed his nerves. 
Somewhere below in darkness, black hands drew forth from hollowed logs a 
rhythm that was a summation of life, a testament of death. Uri crept close to his 
master's aide, the hair ridging on his neck, his growl drowned in the thunder. 

Now the boy could see into the cleared circle of the Sacred Place. Leaping fires 
lighted a scene that burned itself forever into his memory. Fires blazed against 
the basalt cliffs, spurts of flame that leaped and danced showers of sparks borne 
off on the back of the night wind. Now a deep wild chanting rose above the 
booming of the drums. From his vantage point Mafatu saw six war canoes 
drawn up on the beach. Mighty canoes they were, with high- curving stems and 
decorations of white shell that caught the firelight in savage patterns. But what 
held the boy's eyes in awful trance were the figures, springing and leaping 
about the flames: figures as black as night's own face, darting, shifting, 
bounding toward the sky. The eaters-of- men.... Firelight glistened on their 
oiled bodies, on flashing spears and bristling decorations. High above the 
drums' tattoo rose the mournful note of the conch shells, an eerie wailing, like 
the voices of souls last in interstellar space. 

Mafatu saw that the savages were armed with ironwood war clubs— clubs 
studded with sharks' teeth or barbed with the sting-ray's spike. Zigzags of paint 
streaked their bodies. And towering above all, the great stone idol looked down 
with sightless eyes, just as it had looked for untold centuries. 

Mafatu, lying there on the ledge of basalt, watched the strange scene, powerless 
to move, and he felt Doom itself breathing chill upon his neck. He drew back 
from the edge of the cliff. He must flee! In that very instant he heard a crashing 
in the undergrowth, not twenty yards away. A guttural shout ripped the 
darkness. The boy flung a desperate glance over his shoulder. Four black 
figures were tearing toward him through the jungle; he could see them now. 

He turned and ran blindly down the trail whence he had come. Slipping, 
sliding, stumbling, his breath all but choking in his throat. He felt like a man 
drowning in ice-cold water. He felt as he had sometimes felt in dreams, fleeing 
on legs that were weighted. Only one thought gave him courage as he ran: his 
canoe, ready and waiting. His canoe. If only he could reach it, shove it into the 
water before the savages overtook him. Then he would be safe.... 

He knew this trail as he knew the back of his hand. That knowledge gave him 
an advantage. He could hear his pursuers, slipping, stumbling through the 

brush, shouting threats in a language strange to his ears. But there was no 
mistaking the meaning of their words. 

On the boy dashed, fleet as an animal. Thoms and vines clutched at him. Once 
he tripped and sprawled headlong. But he was up and away in an instant. 
Through the trees he caught a glimpse of white beach and his heart surged. 

Then he was speeding across the sand, Uri at his heels 

The canoe was at the lagoon's edge. The boy fell upon the thwart, shoved the 
craft into the water. The logs under the stem robed easily. In that second, the 
black men, yelling wildly, broke from the jungle and dashed across the beach. 
Mafatu was not a minute too soon. He leaped aboard and ran up the sail. The 
savages rushed after him into the shallows. A gust of wind filled the sail. It 
drew smartly. How the men were swimming. One of them, in the lead, reached 
to lay hold of the outrigger. His black hand clutched the purau pole. The canoe 
slacked. Mafatu could see the gleam of bared teeth. The boy lifted the paddle 
and cracked it down.... With a groan the man dropped back into the water. The 
canoe, freed, skimmed out toward the barrier-reef. 

The savages stopped, turned back toward shore. Then they were running back 
to the trail that led across the island, shouting to their fellows as they ran. 
Mafatu knew that it was only a question of minutes until the whole pack would 
be aroused and in pursuit. But he had the advantage of a head start and a light 
craft, while their canoes would have to beat around the southern point of the 
island before they could catch up with him. If only the breeze held.... Mafatu 
remembered then that the canoes he had seen drawn up on the beach had not 
been sailing canoes. There were strong arms to propel those black canoes, to 
overtake him if they could. 

Mafatu's canoe, so slim and light, sped like a zephyr across the lagoon. The tide 
was on the ebb, churning in its race through the passage into the outer ocean. 
The boy gripped the steering paddle and offered up a prayer. Then he was 
caught in the riptide. The outrigger dashed through the passage, a chip on a 
torrent. The wind of the open sea rushed to greet it. The sail filled; the outrigger 
heeled over. Mafatu scrambled to windward to lend his weight for ballast. He 
was off! Homeward, homeward. ... 

Soon, rising above the reef thunder, the boy could hear a measured sound of 
savage chanting. They were after him! 

Looking back over his shoulder, he could see the dark shapes of the canoes 
rounding the southern headland. Moonlight shone on half a hundred wet 

paddles as they dipped and rose to the rhythm of the chant. It was too dark to 
see the eaters-of-men themselves, but their wild song grew ever more savage as 
they advanced. 

The breeze was almost dead aft. The crab-claw sail swelled smooth and taut, 
rigid as a block of silver against the sky. The little canoe, so artfully built, ran 
with swell and favoring wind, laying knots behind her. She was as fleet and 
gracile as the following gulls. But the eaters-of- men were strong paddlers with 
death in their hearts. Their motu tabu had been profaned by a stranger. 
Vengeance powered their muscles. They were tireless. On they came. 

The wind dropped. Imperceptibly at first. Sensing it, Mafatu whistled 
desperately for Maui. "Maui e! Do not desert me," he prayed. "This last time— 
lend me your help." 

Soon the black canoes were so close that the boy could see the shine of dark 
bodies, the glint of teeth, and flash of ornament. If the wind died, he was lost. ... 
Closer, closer the canoes advanced. There were six of them, filled each with ten 
warriors. Some of them leaped to their feet brandished their clubs, shouted at 
the boy across the water. They were a sight to quake the stoutest heart. With 
every second they were cutting down the distance which separated their canoes 
from Mafatu' s. 

Then the wind freshened. Just a puff, but enough. Under its impetus the little 
canoe skimmed ahead while the boy's heart gave an upward surge of thanks. 
Maui had heard his prayer and answered. 

Day broke over the wide Pacific. 

There were the six black canoes, paddles dashing, now gaining, now losing. 

The boy was employing every art and wile of sailing that he knew. As long as 
the wind held he was safe. He managed his little craft to perfection, drawing 
from it every grace of speed in flight. 

He knew that with coming night the wind might drop, and then— He forced the 
thought from his mind. If the wind deserted him it would mean that Maui had 
deserted him, too. But the savages would never get him! It would be Moana, 
the Sea God's turn. The boy looked down into the blue depths over side and his 
smile was grim: "Not yet, Moana," he muttered fiercely. "You haven't won. Not 

But with falling night the wind still held. Darkness rose up from the sea, 
enveloping the world. The stars came out clear and bright. The boy searched 
among them for some familiar constellation to steer by. Should it be Mata Iki 
Little Eyes? Would Mata Iki lead him back safe to Hikueru! And then he saw, 
and knew: there, blazing bravely, were the three stars of the Fishhook of Maui. 
Maui —his sign. Those were his stars to steer by. They would lead him home. In 
that moment he was aware that the chanting of his pursuers had become fainter, 
steadily diminishing. At first he could not believe it. He listened intently. Yes— 
there was no doubt about it: as the breeze freshened, the sound grew fainter 
each passing moment. 

The boy quenched his thirst, ate a scrap of poi, fought against sleep as the night 
waxed and waned. 

By daybreak the chanting had ceased altogether. There was no sign of the 
canoes upon the broad expanse of the sea. The sunburst marched across the 
swinging waters. Far off an albatross caught the light of gold on its wings. Was 
it Kivi? Mafatu could not tell. The wind held fresh and fair. The high island had 
vanished over the curve of the sea and the eaters-of-men had vanished with it. 
But now the great ocean current that had carried Mafatu so willingly away from 
Hikueru was set dead against him. 

He put his little craft first on one tack, then on another. As the long hours 
passed, it seemed as if he were making no headway at all, even though the 
canoe still cut smartly through the water. There was a drift and pull that 
appeared to make a forward gain impossible. Was it Moana, the implacable 
one, trying to prevent Mafatu from returning to his homeland? 

"Perhaps," the boy thought wearily, "Maui is not yet ready for me to return. Is 
there still a shadow of fear in my heart? Is that it?" He was tired now in every 
nerve and sinew, tired in the marrow of his bones, tired of struggle. 

The long hours passed slowly while the sun climbed. Mafatu lashed the 
steering paddle and slept fitfully. Uri lay in the shadow of the sail. The sun 
sank in a conflagration like the death of a world. Night came and fled. Dawn 
rose in a burst of flame, and still Mafatu's canoe skimmed across the sea 
currents, now on this tack, now on that. 

He was to learn in the hours to come that all days, all time, would be like that: 
hours of blasting heat, of shattering sunlight; nights of fitful respite and uneasy 
sleep. Only the sea and the sky, the sea and the sky. A bird now and then, a fish 
leaping from the sea, a boy in a frail canoe. That was all. 

As one day dragged into another, Mafatu scanned the heavens for some hint of 
rain. Storm, anything would have been a welcome relief to this blasting 
monotony, to this limitless circle of sea His store of poi vanished. The coconuts 
likewise. His water was being guarded, drop by drop. But there would come a 
moment when the last drop must be taken, and then.... 

The season of storm was long past. The days, as they came, were cloudless and 
untroubled. Each day broke like a clap of thunder and night fell softly as a 
footfall. The sea was sparkling and benign. The sun's rays were unbroken in 
their violence. At night the Fishhook of Maui twinkled down like friendly eyes, 
luring Mafatu on; and torch-fishes darted up from the lower depths while the 
black waters gleamed with strange lights. Then gradually as the canoe entered 
some other current of the sea, the wind slackened and diminished, this wind 
that had blown for him so long. Now the sail began to slat and bang in the dead 
air. The canoe drifted on the slow, majestic tide. The ceaseless heave and surge 
of the sea's dark breast lulled the boy to hall- sleeping rest; the murmur of the 
waters playing about the prow sounded like his mother's reassuring voice. 

Each sun as it rose seemed hotter than that of the preceding day. Now the face 
of the ocean was a disk of blazing copper. Masses of seaweed, heavy with the 
eggs of fishes, floated on the sluggish tide, seeming to clutch at the canoe, to 
hold it back from its destination. Hikueru, the Cloud of Islands— did they really 
exist? Were they not, like the chambered nautilus, only iridescence dreamed by 
the seal Sharks were beginning to appear— as they did always about a craft 
becalmed. One dorsal fin, larger than the others, followed the canoe in leisurely 
parallel; just far enough distant so that Mafatu could not see the body that 
supported it. But he knew from the size of the dorsal that it must be a tiger 
shark.... It began at length to play upon his nerves and set him jumpy. He 
scarcely dared now, at night, to lash his steering paddle and sleep. 

The sail slatted and banged. The boy paddled through the long hours, paddled 
until the muscles of his arms and shoulders ached in agony and every sinew 
cried in protest. And at night, when darkness brought blessed release from the 
sun, there was always the Fishhook of Maui leading him on. But now when the 
boy looked up at the ancient constellation, doubt lay heavy on his heart. 
Hikueru— where was it' ! Where was it? The sea gave back no answer. 

"Maui," the boy whispered, "have you deserted met. Have you looked into my 
heart and found me wanting?" 

And suddenly, like the snapping of a string, he was overwhelmed with despair. 
Maui had deserted him. It was Moana, the Sea God's turn. The sea looked dark 

and cool and inviting. Little wavelets lapped and chuckled about the hull like 
beckoning hands. He looked over side. Deep down in those cool depths it 
seemed to him that he could see faces ...his mother's, perhaps.... He flashed his 
hand across his eyes. Had the sun stricken him daft? Had he been touched by 
moon-madness' Then a wave of overpowering anger brought him to his knees: 
anger at this dark element, this sea, which would destroy him if it could. His 
voice was thick and hoarse, his throat bursting with rage. 

"Moana, you Sea God!" he shouted violently. "You! You destroyed my mother. 
Always you have tried to destroy me. Fear of you has haunted my sleep. Fear 
of you turned my people against me. But now"- he choked; his hands gripped 
his throat to stop its hot burning— "now I no longer fear you, Sea!" His voice 
rose to a wild note. He sprang to his feet, flung back his head, spread wide his 
arms in defiance. "Do you hear me, Moana? I am not afraid of you! Destroy 
me— but I laugh at you. Do you hear? I laugh!" 

His voice, cracked but triumphant, and shattered the dead air. He sank back on 
his haunches, shaking with spasms of ragged laughter. It racked his body, left 
him spent and gasping on the floor of the canoe. Uri, whimpering softly, crept 
to his master's side. 

Off to the northeast a haze of light glowed up from the sea. Sometimes a lagoon 
of an atoll throws up just such a glow. It is the reflection of the lagoon upon the 
lower sky. Lifting his head, the boy watched it with dulled eyes, un- 
comprehending at first. 

"Te mori" he whispered at last, his voice a thread of awe. 'The lagoon-fire" 

There came a whir and fury in the sky above, a beat of mighty wings: an 
albatross, edged with light, circled above the canoe. It swooped low, its gentle, 
questing eyes turned upon the boy and his dog. Then the bird lifted in its efforts 
less flight, flew straight ahead and vanished into the lagoon-fire. And then 
Mafatu knew. Hikueru, his home-land, lay ahead. Kivi.... 

A strangled cry broke from the boy. He shut his eyes tight and there was a taste 
of salt, wet upon his lips. 

The crowd assembled upon the beach watched the small canoe slip through the 
reef-passage. It was a fine canoe, an artfully built. The people thought at first 
that it was empty. Silence gripped them, and a chill of awe touched them like a 
cold hand. Then they saw a head lift above the gunwale, a thin body struggle to 
sit upright, clinging to the mid-thwart. 

" Aue te ciue!” The cry went up from the people in a vast sigh. So they might 
speak if the sea should give up its dead. But the boy who dropped over side into 
the shallows and staggered up the beach was flesh and blood, albeit wasted and 
thin. They saw that a necklace of boar's teeth shone upon his chest; a splendid 
spear flashed in his hand. Tavana Nui, the Great Chief of Hikueru, went 
forward to greet the stranger. The brave young figure halted, drew itself 

"My father," Mafatu cried thickly, "I have come home." 

The Great Chief’s face was transformed with joy. This brave figure, so thin and 
straight, with the fine necklace and the flashing spear and courage blazing from 
his eyes— his son? The man could only stand and stare and stare, as if he could 
not believe his senses. And then a small yellow dog pulled himself over the 
gunwale of the canoe, fell at his master's feet, Uri.... Far overhead an albatross 
caught a light of gold on its wings. Then Tavana Nui turned to his people and 
cried: "Here is my son come home from the sea. Mafatu, Stout Heart. A brave 
name for a brave boy!" 

Mafatu swayed where he stood. "My father, I ..." 

Tavana Nui caught his son as he fell. 

It happened many years ago, before the traders and missionaries first came into 
the South Seas, while the Polynesians were still great in numbers and fierce of 
heart. But even today the people of Hikueru sing this story in their chants and 
tell it over the evening fires.